One Tin Soldier
by Hans the bold
Summary: “Walking Away”, “And The Band Played On”, “I Have Loved You Dearly” and “We Gather Together” continue here. And, yes, it’s still rated PG-13 for its attempt at a realistic portrayal of a disintegrating family.
1. Part 1

I've put some comments at the back. Here I would like once again to thank the posters on the 7th Heaven boards at Mighty Big TV (http://www.mightybigtv.com) for their kind words and willingness to listen to all my opinions about this show, both good and bad. I would also like to thank all of you who have reviewed the previous installments of this story here; I have enjoyed and appreciated all your feedback on my work. For those of you who have just "tuned in", this story line begins with "Walking Away" and I am assuming you have read it and the other installments before you start here. The story line I'm following has diverged significantly from that of the show, so reading the previous installments is the only way you will really know what's going on here.  
  
* * *  
  
PART 1  
  
Perhaps it was her voice that had brought it all into focus. Maybe.  
  
Or perhaps it was the image of her, alone in a phone booth, far away. Perhaps it was the fact that she had not told him much, that she had not said what her job was, had not told him where she was living or even if she had a roof over her head at night. Perhaps it was the thought that Christmas would be here soon and Eric Camden knew now, with utter certainty, that his daughter would not be coming home for it.  
  
But she had said she was fine. That was something, wasn't it?  
  
Unless she was lying, just like you were.  
  
When had it become so easy to lie all the time?  
  
#  
  
Eric Camden sat for a long time in his office. He took out her picture and stared at it, blinking back the tears. It seemed so long ago now, that he had last seen her smile like this. It seemed so long ago that he had heard her laugh or sing or cry.  
  
You bring them into the world, he thought, and you love them. Everything else comes from this. Every thought, every deed, every action you take must be because you love them. And you must never, ever, turn your back on them. It's that simple.  
  
Is it?  
  
Yes.  
  
Then you have failed.  
  
He knew this was true, knew it deep inside. He had failed not just with Lucy, but with all of them. It had not happened quickly, this failure. No. Rather, it had come piecemeal, bit by bit. It had begun -- when?  
  
I don't know.  
  
You do.  
  
Before. It had begun before. Before Lucy, before Mary or Matt. Even before Annie. It began that first day, that day you have forgotten by now, when you gave in to the wrong. It began when it was easier to rationalize injustice away, to say that it didn't matter when someone hurt someone else for no reason, because it was easier and safer that way.  
  
And once it began, it never stopped.  
  
It came to him then, in that moment, why he was here, why he was in this chair, in this office. It came to him why in truth he had decided to devote his life to God, to people. It came in the form of every moment, every time he had intervened in someone's life to try and help them, every time he had preached against racism and sexism and bigotry and hate. It came and it came and there was no stopping it now, no denying that it was real.  
  
He had given in. Early and often and without good cause, he had given in. It was too easy to do, was a part of him, and when he preached against injustice he realized that he was doing so to beg God to forgive him for allowing it all around him.  
  
Another memory came then, sharp and in focus.  
  
Being punished. Knowing that he had done nothing wrong, knowing that it was the man who punished him who was wrong, yet allowing the punishment, accepting it meekly. Long ago.  
  
The details were unimportant, long forgotten. What had stayed, and what burned now, was the memory of the surrender, was the memory of looking up into his father's stern gaze and knowing that he would give in to the man.  
  
Bit by bit, piece by piece. His father.  
  
Annie.  
  
And now, because Eric Camden had given in, because he had not stood against them when they were wrong, because he had not seen that what was happening to his beloved Annie was much more than simply menopause, that menopause was only a drop in the bucket of what was wrong, his second daughter, his Lucy, was far away and alone and did not dare call home.  
  
And he had been the one forced to tell her this. 


	2. Part 2

PART 2  
  
As he walked through the back door into the kitchen it seemed like something was different. Not the place, though; the place was the same, like a Norman Rockwell painting. Dinner cooking on the stove, smelling good, Annie there, her gaze rising to meet his.  
  
She said nothing.  
  
Neither did he.  
  
Eric stepped through the living room to his office, passing the fireplace and just pausing as he did, then moving on. Dinner would be soon and he wondered why he wasn't hungry. He sat down at his desk.  
  
He brought his hand up, touched at his nose. It was felling better, and the bruising had faded from around his eye, but it still hurt sometimes and every time it did he thought back to that moment when his wife had hit him. How many of them had guessed what had happened, had seen through his lie?  
  
The door opened. He looked up.  
  
The Colonel.  
  
Inwardly, Eric sighed. He had known, somehow, that this moment would come. It was a part of every visit, one way or another. Time for the report. Sometimes it wasn't vocal at all; just a look from his father, a silent gaze of disapproval. He remembered the tone in the man's voice when he had asked him to take Mary.  
  
The Colonel closed the door. Eric heard the bolt click into place. He looked up.  
  
:"Son."  
  
"Dad."  
  
The Colonel stepped forward, to the desk, sat down in the chair opposite him.  
  
"Son, we need to talk."  
  
Eric felt himself tense, felt his mouth go dry. Why was it always the same tone, the same look?  
  
How do I tell him no?  
  
"This family is in trouble, son."  
  
Eric nodded now. His father watched him. Finally Eric spoke.  
  
"I know."  
  
The Colonel brought his hand to his chin, his gaze unflinching.  
  
"What have you done about it?"  
  
Eric drew in a deep breath.  
  
"About Lucy?" he asked.  
  
"It's a lot more than Lucy. I talked to the children. They're scared to death. What is going on here, son?"  
  
A part of Eric wanted to just say Annie. Annie banished them to the garage apartment. Annie wouldn't let Lucy back in. Annie burned her pictures. Annie hit me. But was it just Annie? He thought back to this morning, remembered.  
  
No. I let her do it.  
  
The Colonel sensed his hesitation. His voice was hard as he spoke again.  
  
"Son, I am not happy with what I'm seeing here. Matt doesn't even come home much anymore. Mary won't look me in the eye and never says anything. Simon is scared to death because of his mother. Lucy ran away, and you aren't even looking for her. And your wife won't even talk to me. The only one around here who's got her head on her shoulders is Ruthie."  
  
It was true. Eric lowered his face into his hands.  
  
"I know," he said. "I'm trying to make it all right, Dad. I'm trying."  
  
"I don't think you're trying hard enough, son. What is wrong with Annie? I want the truth."  
  
Eric didn't look up. He couldn't. He was a little boy again, and this was the Colonel.  
  
"I don't know," he said softly. "She's not like she was before. It's like she's angry all the time."  
  
"And what do you do about it? What's your plan of action, son?"  
  
"I tried to get her to a counselor --"  
  
"A counselor? You just push her off on someone else? I asked you what you've done, Eric, not what you've tried to get someone else to do."  
  
"Dad, this isn't that simple --"  
  
The Colonel sat back in his chair, an audible "Pah!" escaping his lips. Eric raised his head and read the disappointment on the man's face.  
  
"Son, I have to wonder what kind of a man you are if you can't even control your own wife."  
  
Silence, just for a few seconds. Eric Camden watched his father, the words still there, still hanging in the air between them. Because Eric knew, suddenly, that this was what it was all about, what it had always been all about. What kind of man are you? I taught you to take charge, son, to be a man. A man doesn't flinch and a man doesn't give in. He thinks and he acts. That's how I survived war, and that means I know this. There is no question. So what kind of a man are you, son?  
  
Eric opened his mouth the speak but the Colonel spoke first.  
  
"And what about Lucy? What are you doing to find her? She has no idea what the world is like; do you know what happens to most teenage runaways? You expect the police to just find her for you? Mary tells me they aren't even looking for her."  
  
"They can't, Dad. She's not --"  
  
"I don't want to hear about can't be done, son!"  
  
Eric recoiled, just a bit, at the man's sharp bark. He had been about to say something about the telephone call, the ad in the Albuquerque Journal, had been about to say that he was doing all he could but that there were other things to think about.  
  
"Dad --" he said finally, but the Colonel interrupted him again. The disappointment in the man's voice was palpable.  
  
"All right, son. I'm willing to accept that you can't handle this, just like you couldn't handle Mary. So here's what's going to happen: Annie is going to get over this menopause nonsense and she is going to behave like a wife and mother again. I will stay here and make sure this happens, and if she tries to hit me the way she hit you, she'll learn the hard way what an ex-Marine can do."  
  
So he had guessed about the broken nose. Eric found that his hand was trembling. He tried to speak again.  
  
"Dad, I don't think --"  
  
"You don't have to think, Eric. You just have to learn how a man runs a household."  
  
Eric watched the Colonel for a moment. He had never heard his father's voice like this. There was a rage to it, a sense that it was absolute, a sense that you dared not challenge it. He was the Colonel. He was the patriarch. It was his clan, his family, here. And it was his son who had failed him, who had humiliated him by compromising, by giving in. The rage was not at Annie, or at Lucy, or at any of the children; it was at Eric, because the failings of a family were the failings of the father.  
  
The Colonel was still talking. "I have contacted a friend of mine, a private investigator. He will find Lucy, and when he does she will go to Buffalo with me and I will fix her. THAT is how it will be. Is that clear, son?"  
  
#  
  
It was the threat against Annie and then the mention of Lucy that did it. It was the four words, uttered with contempt: I will fix her. And it was Lucy's voice on the phone this morning, something in that voice that Eric had barely noticed, something that he had even denied, deep inside, because a part of him didn't want to believe and couldn't believe it was true.  
  
I'm all right, Dad, something in her tone had said. I'm all right. I am a woman and I am an adult and I am able to survive and prosper in the world. I am Lucy Camden and I will make it.  
  
The Colonel now leaned back in his seat again.  
  
"Now, son. Tell me everything about what happened with Lucy. Tell me everything the police know."  
  
I will fix her.  
  
The four words.  
  
I will fix her.  
  
Eric's head went down, just a bit, and he looked at his father from beneath furrowed brows.  
  
And he knew, suddenly, what he had to do.  
  
"Get out," he said.  
  
The Colonel raised an eyebrow, just a bit, his expression curious, like he was watching a bug.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I said get out of my house."  
  
The Colonel stiffened, drew up, his chest rising as he did.  
  
"Son, I don't believe I care for the tone of your voice."  
  
Eric stood. He was shaking now, terrified of his own sudden rage.  
  
I will fix her.  
  
"I said get the hell out of my goddamn house! Now!"  
  
His own face was red; he could feel it, the blood rushing, the burning heat of his anger. And he saw as his father stood, his own face growing red.  
  
"Are you crossing me, son?"  
  
Eric didn't answer right away. He felt as his hands formed fists, and as he moved around the desk to face his father. The rage was pure in him now, flooding out with the years of his father's looks, his father's words, his father's impossible expectations and demands. He wanted to hit the Colonel, wanted to pound his face into jelly, wanted to scream his anger and frustration into the immaculate, handsome, self-confident face.  
  
The Colonel had turned to face him. Eric spoke slowly now.  
  
"I said get the hell out. If you aren't out in five minutes, I will make damn sure you never see any of your grandchildren again. Do you understand me, Colonel?"  
  
For the first time he could remember, Eric saw his father's face go pale. The older man shrank down a bit, his gaze falling. After a moment it came up again, and it was twisted with rage.  
  
"You never were a man, boy. I leave now, you'll get nothing from me ever again."  
  
Eric hissed his response.  
  
"I said GO." 


	3. Part 3

PART 3  
  
Morgan Hamilton had never thought of himself as anyone extraordinary. This was not that he wasn't, of course; sometimes the most extraordinary people are those who feel most strongly that they are not. So perhaps it was with Morgan. God had called to him, and he had answered, and that was enough. It meant certain things, though, to him, to how he dealt with those around him.  
  
Christ had said to love your neighbor, so he tried to. Christ had said to forgive those who trespass, so he tried. He knew injustice, first hand, knew prejudice and hate. But Morgan was extraordinary enough of a man to know that these things were not all there were. There were, as well, those who were not made of hate, those for whom hate was anathema.  
  
He was fortunate, Morgan was, to count many such people among his friends.  
  
And he was wise enough to know that love and hate were never so simple as they might first appear.  
  
He drove now, across the town of Glen Oak, along streets shaded by trees, past homes and businesses, finally to the familiar facade of the Glen Oak Community Church. He pulled inside the lot, stopped his car, engaged the brake and shut off the motor.  
  
I need you, his friend had said. Please come.  
  
Morgan stepped out of his car, locked the door, walked up to the front doors of the church and moved inside.  
  
It was quiet in there; he saw, in the front pew, his friend.  
  
He stepped forward.  
  
"Eric?"  
  
The man turned. He looked very small, his face telling of fatigue, pale even around the tape and brace on his nose. He said nothing as Morgan stepped toward him.  
  
"Are you all right?" Morgan asked.  
  
Eric shook his head, his gaze falling. He was holding his Bible in his hands, closed. When he finally spoke his voice trembled, the words barely audible.  
  
"I don't ...."  
  
Help me, he had said on the phone. Please.  
  
"Come on," Morgan said, helping him up, "Let's try your office. We'll talk there."  
  
Eric nodded, followed his lead. Morgan guided him into his chair, took the seat opposite the desk for himself.  
  
"Eric, what's wrong?"  
  
Eric shook his head. The short walk to the back had brought some color back to his face and now he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair.  
  
"I did it, Morgan. I threw him out. Oh, God ...."  
  
Morgan thought of Lucy. Another?  
  
"Who, Eric?"  
  
A pause. Eric drew in a deep breath.  
  
"My father."  
  
Morgan's brows went up.  
  
"The Colonel?"  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
Morgan watched his friend. He knew of the Colonel, knew that the man occupied an almost mythical place in the Camden family. And he had met the Colonel once, had shaken his hand, and remembered being a bit uneasy as he did, feeling the man's gaze on him, appraising him. Are you worthy of my son?  
  
"What happened?" Morgan asked finally.  
  
Eric sighed again. As he spoke, his head went down, cradled into his hands.  
  
"I threw him out. My father."  
  
As he spoke, it occurred to Morgan that in no other family he had ever seen was the weight of a father so heavily carried by the son than in this one. It was normal for sons to want the approval of their fathers, though this was not always easy for them to achieve; how many times had he sat with the young men of his church and heard this? But now, as his friend spoke, as the words came out, slowly at first and them more quickly, as Eric remembered this thing and that thing, Morgan reflected on the Camdens, on his friend.  
  
Eric had no tolerance for injustice, save when it was done to him. In his own life he would never be good enough, would never be the proper son for his father, would never feel he had done enough. Men like the Colonel were more common that it might first appear, and for their sons, for his friend, life would be an endless, impossible quest for their approval. And then they, in their turn, would pass the same impossible expectations on to their own sons. Morgan remembered suddenly what John had said to him about Matt, when the two of them had been sharing an apartment.  
  
"God, Dad, he's driving me crazy. Everything in the world is about him, about what he's doing, about his life. It's all a show. He never lets me alone and he gets jealous if I have a date. He meets women and then he stalks them to get them to go out with him, but then they're never quite good enough and it's all back to him. I don't even think he likes girls, but it's like he has to have a girlfriend to keep everyone else happy."  
  
Grandfather, father, son. And always about appearances. Always about expectations. Always about being what you were told to be.  
  
"Your father threatened Annie?" Morgan asked finally.  
  
Eric nodded. "Yeah. He didn't say it directly, but we both knew what he meant."  
  
Morgan nodded.  
  
Then Eric rubbed his brow; he seemed almost ready to collapse face first against the desk.  
  
"The worst thing is, part of what he said was right."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Annie."  
  
Morgan remembered what Eric had told him about Lucy, how Lucy had left, how it had torn him up inside because it was about Annie, really, not about the garage apartment at all. It was about how Annie was lately, about how there was no discussion with her anymore, about how it was her way or no way, about how she just wasn't the same anymore. Morgan chose his next words carefully.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
Eric started to speak, failed. He tried again.  
  
"She burned everything, every picture of Lucy. Later I found that Lucy's birth certificate and high school diploma were missing, and I think she burned them too. I had to take Lucy's things and store them here because Annie was going to get rid of them. It's like my daughter is dead, Morgan. It's like my own wife took her away from me."  
  
"She burned every picture of her own daughter?"  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
Morgan sighed heavily, felt himself grow weak, felt the back of the chair against himself as he did. "Eric," he said, "you know that isn't right."  
  
As Eric nodded again Morgan marveled at his own talent for understatement. And as the two men stared across the desk at one another, it occurred to Morgan that this, really, was the problem. We bury reality beneath our desire that things be perfect, that our family seem functional, that our world make sense all the time and that all problems be solved easily and quickly. We pretend that the world is something it isn't. We don't call things what they are.  
  
Abuse. Mental illness.  
  
It was time to admit the truth.  
  
Sane parents do not banish their grown children to the garage. Sane parents do not show up unannounced at the homes of their grown children and expect to take charge. Sane parents allow their children to grow up.  
  
Sane parents do not demand submission as a precondition to their love.  
  
Eric was watching him.  
  
"What am I going to do, Morgan?"  
  
Morgan watched back as he answered.  
  
"I think you already know." 


	4. Part 4

PART 4  
  
That man was gone. He had left quietly, with only a glare for her and for Eric, not saying goodbye to the children. And she had watched him as he left, and had watched her husband watch him go, and had felt the tension in the air, the danger, the chaos. And then the front door had closed after him and Eric had just gone into his office and had closed the door and she had not seen him until breakfast the next day.  
  
It should have been better, with that man gone. He had arrived unannounced, as he liked to do, and he had gone to the children and had talked to them and he had brought his poison to them, had with his words turned them against her, against Eric. She didn't have to hear this to know it; it was simply true and that was that. And Eric had done the right thing, finally, had gotten rid of him, so now things should be better.  
  
Only they weren't.  
  
It was hard to put your finger on what was wrong anymore. It was hard to put things into words. But the chaos outside was still there, was still growing, despite all she had done to hold it off. It wasn't a Camden world out there and that meant it was dangerous, not to be trusted. They were wrong, these other ways; they weren't moral and they were filled with the dangers of drugs and sex and ideas.  
  
Only here, in the home, in the embrace of family, was it safe.  
  
So why was she so afraid?  
  
I have to keep control. I have to make it right again.  
  
All around her, the very air screamed with chaos, like it was thick, like it was a morass of thick water, impossible to see but there, pressing in on her all the time.  
  
Stop it! Stop it!  
  
#  
  
She began to search, moving all through the house, through every room. There was the sudden fear, the sudden terror, that she had missed something when she had purged their lives of the danger that girl represented. It didn't have to be much; one hidden picture, one piece of paper with her name on it.  
  
That name.  
  
Lucy.  
  
It came to her suddenly, as she searched. The name. The memory of the face, smiling up at her with trust. The face of a little girl.  
  
Lucy.  
  
No stop it stop it stop it!  
  
The others were there, watching her as she searched. Matt, her strong son. Mary, so beautiful. Simon, who was becoming a man. They all watched her and said nothing, stayed out of her way. This was good, too, since they were the ones in danger from the chaos, were the ones she was protecting.  
  
Ruthie watched her too, her face a mix of curiosity and strength. Somehow Ruthie had always been immune to the danger. Somehow she had learned to hold the chaos at bay. She alone among them was strong enough to speak.  
  
"What's up, Mom?"  
  
"I'm cleaning. I have to make the house safe."  
  
"Safe?"  
  
"From the evil influences."  
  
Ruthie nodded.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Annie smiled at her youngest daughter and returned to her task. Eric would be home soon and she needed to make sure the house was ready. 


	5. Part 5

PART 5  
  
He had spent the rest of the day sitting, staring at the phone, begging it to ring.  
  
Albuquerque. What kind of a place was it? How many people lived there? what kind of people were they? Was there much crime?  
  
Please call me again, Lucy. Please.  
  
But she had not.  
  
At last he rose, locked up his office and stepped to his car. He had heard once that there came a certain clarity of thought when all alternatives were gone, a certain calm when you knew there was no choice. But he did not feel this now, as he started his car and drove slowly home. Instead the weight seemed heavier because he didn't know what words he should use, what way he should speak.  
  
He only knew what he had to say.  
  
#  
  
He met Matt at the door, heading out.  
  
"Library?" he asked.  
  
Matt nodded.  
  
"Not tonight. Please."  
  
Matt looked at him.  
  
"I need to study."  
  
"I need you here. Please."  
  
Matt's gaze didn't falter, but Eric could see the fear in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again without a word. For a moment the two stared at one another. Then Eric spoke.  
  
"Can you bring everyone downstairs?"  
  
Matt regarded him, nodded. Eric turned and walked into the living room. He noted that his hand was trembling.  
  
You have to do this. You have to talk about this.  
  
I am afraid.  
  
I know.  
  
#  
  
They came, one by one. Mary, Simon, Ruthie, Matt, Sam and David. They came and they sat and they watched him.  
  
Annie. She took a seat beside him and looked at him.  
  
"What's this about, Eric?" she asked.  
  
He took a few seconds to look at her. There were line on her face now, and her hair seemed thinner than he recalled, almost like it had been singed and was ready to shatter. But most of all there was an intensity to her that hadn't been there before, a look in her eyes that drilled into you, that gave no quarter.  
  
"We need to talk," he said. "All of us."  
  
"About the Colonel?" Mary asked.  
  
Eric shook his head.  
  
"No."  
  
Annie was still watching him. He inhaled deeply.  
  
"I got a call yesterday. From Lucy."  
  
Silence, just for a second.  
  
"She's all right."  
  
You could see the relief with Matt, Mary and Simon. Ruthie drew back, just a bit, her face expressionless. Eric turned, watched Annie closely.  
  
She was trembling. It hadn't been visible before but now it was. Her eyes were wide, and her breath, coming in short bursts through her nose, could just be heard. She had gone pale.  
  
Matt spoke.  
  
"Is she --"  
  
Annie's head snapped toward her son, and he stopped in mid-sentence.  
  
"She wanted all of us to know she's all right," Eric said again.  
  
"Stop it," Annie hissed suddenly.  
  
He watched his wife carefully, spoke slowly.  
  
"Annie, Lucy is --"  
  
"Stop it!" Annie screamed. "Stop it stop it!"  
  
He drew back just as she swung.  
  
* * *  
  
All her life, Annie had felt the bubble. Often she was unaware of it, because right thinking and doing kept it broad, kept it wide, kept the edge away from her. There was the edge, of course, out there; you could see it sometimes on the news, when a plane went down or kids went berserk in a high school and killed everybody. You could see it in other countries, like in Afghanistan, where it had brought madmen to power and reduced women to the status of slaves. But these things had always been far away, and the chaos had been kept away by the bubble.  
  
But the bubble was shrinking. It had been shrinking for some time, closing in on her. She had tried and tried to keep it whole, to keep it away, to hold her family together against it. Because that was what it was, really; the bubble was held up by faith, by proper action, by proper living. Out there, in the chaos, there were those other people, those people who didn't live the right way, who did things and took risks and who stepped outside their place. They were dangerous and had to be kept away.  
  
Even the mention of them could bring catastrophe.  
  
Lucy called.  
  
Two words, spoken. Only two words.  
  
But they were the words and they drove deep, penetrated through from outside, from the chaos, stabbed through.  
  
For Lucy was the key. It was her; she had lived here, in this house, and now she was gone and destroyed and cast into the pit that was the chaos and if she came back it would all be over. Lucy was danger and fear and terror and she was my little girl and I love her and I burned her up and oh my God oh God no no no no ....  
  
In that instant, in that moment, the bubble shattered with the words.  
  
I have destroyed my child.  
  
Annie heard herself scream, heard her voice echo inside herself. For in that instant the bubble was gone, as it exploded into a million shards, as she felt as the chaos rushing in, over her, over all of them. And the shards, sharp and pointed and a million in number, flew into her, into her skin and face and eyes, tearing her into pieces even as she screamed again.  
  
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"  
  
But there would be no stopping it now. What had begun long ago, what had built through the years and years and what had finally, in this last year, become something she could no longer ignore, could no longer avoid, exploded with a force even she had never anticipated.  
  
What had once been Annie Camden was no more.  
  
* * *  
  
Her fist caught his chin, just barely. He still felt the force, but there was no surprise this time; part of him had expected it and he had reacted even as she swung. She was screaming now, a high wail that told of terror and danger. And even as his wife came at him again, Eric Camden was able to stumble to his feet and back away, and even as her left hand, wildly flailing, caught and toppled the vase on the table beside his chair, shattering it on the carpeted floor, he had just a millisecond to see his children.  
  
Matt was frozen in his seat, eyes wide in fear. Beside him Simon had risen, was pulling the twins away, leading them one with each hand, hurrying. Ruthie there, just sitting, just watching, almost a smile on her face, almost.  
  
Annie rose, came for him.  
  
"Stop it! I burned her! I burned her! Stop it!"  
  
"No!" he heard, and realized suddenly that it was his own voice. "She's all right! She's our daughter, Annie!"  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
He saw Mary, grabbing for the phone, jabbing at the buttons.  
  
It had been a moment, perhaps two.  
  
It was hard to tell.  
  
Annie swung again, her eyes wild as she screamed.  
  
"No! No! No!"  
  
"Annie!" he cried. She was afraid; he could tell. She was terrified, even as he felt her fist connect with his chest, even as he tried to reach to her, to grab her, to hold her close, to restrain her. And even as she screamed and he cried out again, he could hear Mary's voice, itself hysterical with fear.  
  
"She'll kill him! Oh, God, hurry!"  
  
Annie tried again, her fist hammering against his chest, her rage suddenly undirected, and then she had collapsed to the floor, her head down, trembling and whimpering and hiding her head in her hands.  
  
"Stop it stop it make it stop please please please make it stop ...." 


	6. Part 6

PART 6  
  
He got home late. The house was quiet.  
  
Matt was there, sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. Beside the table the broken remains of the vase still littered the floor. Eric locked the door behind him, watched his son for a moment. Matt did not move.  
  
"Is everyone all right here?" Eric asked finally.  
  
"They're in bed. Robbie came in a little while ago."  
  
"Did you tell him?"  
  
"I said Mom was sick and that you had taken her to the hospital."  
  
A half-truth, thought Eric. Maybe it's a start. He stepped over to his son and sat down across from him. Matt shifted his gaze and looked at him closely.  
  
"What did they say?" he asked.  
  
"They don't know," Eric answered. "They have her sedated."  
  
He almost added "restrained", thought better of it.  
  
"Do they know what's wrong?"  
  
Eric shook his head. "They'll have to do some tests, see if it's something physical. They asked me to search the house for any kind of drugs."  
  
Matt nodded. "This isn't menopause, Dad."  
  
"I know. I think we all know."  
  
Matt ran his hand through his hair, sighed. "I'm sorry, Dad. I should have done something ..."  
  
Eric shook his head.  
  
"It's not your fault, son."  
  
Matt nodded. His face read uncertainty.  
  
"But it's all going to be all right, though, isn't it?" he asked.  
  
#  
  
Later, Matt went to bed. Eric sat alone on the couch, the lights dimmed around him. There would be no sleep tonight, he knew. Instead the memories kept playing in his head, again and again.  
  
Annie, on the floor, trembling and whimpering. The policemen, two of them, coming in, one just speaking to her. The wild glare in her eyes as she looked up and saw him, then as she fought them, then as they handcuffed her and took her away.  
  
The hospital then. Waiting. The face of the doctor, a woman he didn't know, a woman with a sharp, angular face, talking as gently as she could to him, explaining things he didn't understand about involuntary commitment, about haloperidol and thorazine, having him sign something, telling him it would be best if he went home and called them back in the morning.  
  
Eric looked now at the shuttered window. For how many years have we lived like this? For how long have we thought it was all right, that we could just pull the curtains closed on the world? For how many years have we pretended that the world was the way we wanted it to be?  
  
He thought for a while and realized that he didn't know. The lie, the pretty lie of a perfect family, was all he knew. It had become his truth, their truth. Everything.  
  
How will I know what is true anymore? he wondered.  
  
The answer came to him slowly. Lucy. She had gone away, had left the fold, had joined the world. Her world, wherever it was, was real. She had abandoned the pretty lie and had embraced an uncertain future. And Eric Camden knew then, as he sat in the darkness of his home, that he would seek her out, his daughter, that he would find her and sit with her and ask the questions he had never before dared to ask.  
  
Maybe she could teach him these things he did not know.  
  
THE END 


	7. Author's Note

AUTHOR'S NOTE  
  
Here I close this little tale. It's not the end of the story, of course; life stories are ongoing and there are a lot of things that could happen to the Hans the bold Camdens after this. But stories do need a finish, and unless and until my muse strikes me otherwise (she is a harsh mistress and carries a whip, you know), this will be it for this story arc.  
  
As I stated at the outset, my point has been to show, hopefully, the validity of one of my main criticisms of 7th Heaven; namely, that if the producers and writers chose to make it so, it could be a fine drama in the tradition of shows like "Life Goes On" or "Promised Land". There is potential in this series, with these characters, and even with several of the actors on the show. Having a primary character be a member of the clergy is rare in Hollywood, and there is a lot that could be done with this; who can forget John Lithgow's excellent work with such a role in "Footloose"?  
  
Unfortunately, 7th Heaven, despite some good episodes ("Nothing Endures But Change" and "Yak Sada" come to mind), has fallen well short of its potential, particularly in recent years. I believe the main reason for this is that the show, like most television shows today, is written by committee and by the marketing department at WB, rather than by individuals with an artistic vision for what they want the show to be. They have identified a niche in the viewing audience and they write to exploit that niche. In this way 7th Heaven is really no different from "Dawson's Creek" or "Beverly Hills 90210"; only the target market has changed. There is no doubt that this approach has been, from a purely commercial perspective, a success. These marketing people are experts at what they do and 7th Heaven draws in more viewers than any other WB show, creating significant commercial revenues for the network.  
  
But there are problems with pandering to one's audience too closely. It is too easy to fall into the trap of not challenging one's viewers, of not addressing the failures of their world-views as well as the successes. With 7th Heaven this has manifested itself in a number of disturbing ways, most notably the show's ever decreasing grip on reality. The scripts present real life problems but insist that they can be solved in the span of an hour minus time for commercials. The Camden children never grow up and have no friends, as normal young people do; rather, they remain obsessed with getting boyfriends/girlfriends, and almost every episode now dwells, much like a soap opera, on whether Lucy will hook up with Jeremy or Robbie or Mary will hook up with Wilson or Robbie or Matt will hook up with Heather or Cheryl or Simon will hook up with Deena. Eric, instead of being a man challenged by God to confront his own humanity and that of those around him, is nothing more than a voice for a type of patriarchy that almost always fails in the real world or a mouthpiece giving us a public service announcement on whatever issue is trendy this week, and Annie is increasingly nothing more than a premenopausal hormone bomb played for laughs and false drama. Ruthie, in the writers' attempts to make her cute, has become a frightening sociopath in training. Instead of posing questions and challenging its viewers, the show gives us pat and simple answers.  
  
Further, in pandering to the self proclaimed "family values" audience, 7th Heaven has become increasingly misogynistic and narrow in its solutions to the problems it addresses. There is a disturbing trend toward showing the female characters as immoral, shallow, stupid and dependent, and the male characters as being moral, strong and in authority, being told in at least once case (the Colonel to Wilson) that it is the responsibility of the husband to control his wife. Interesting issues that might offend the target audience, like abortion or homosexuality or atheism, are ignored. Complex issues are diluted and made simple, and everything is presented in terms of black and white. While I believe there are some absolutes in the universe (Osama bin Laden is evil, for example), there are many more things in life without clear or easy answers. Worst of all, the show has, in the last year and a half, taken to playing for laughs the issue of spousal abuse and child abuse.  
  
The result, of course, is storytelling that both fails to live up to its potential and which often sends distinctly unhealthy messages to its viewers. This is particularly troubling when one reads the web pages of 7th Heaven's more ardent fans and sees that many of them idolize the Camdens as an ideal family and even express a desire to model their own behavior after them. What I have tried to do in my series of stories is both write good drama around the show's premise and show that the kind of behavior that the show treats lightly (Annie's clear emotional problems and the family's addiction to simple solutions and happy endings, among others) is actually very serious. This is not to say, however, that I find the issues confronting my Camdens to be hopeless; rather, solving them will simply be a lot harder and a lot messier than the show itself maintains.  
  
As I said above, there are of course many places this narrative could go from here. As in real life, the struggles of the Hans the bold Camdens are just beginning. But for now, there are other projects with my own characters that await my attention, and their demands to have their stories told I can no longer ignore. 


End file.
